


you ain't got my number / you can't pin me down

by lesbianmcqueen



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: F/F, Hate Sex, Humanized, Kinda, Lesbians, they are sexy and hate each other, top lightning, umm idk what to tell you, which is crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22137538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianmcqueen/pseuds/lesbianmcqueen
Summary: Sterling's seen that look before. It’s the same expression McQueen wears when the 95 is inches from the finish line, intimate, familiar, infinitely sharper up close, and she isn’t ready for the totality of it. Wasn’t prepared for that blueness to swallow her whole.
Relationships: Lightning McQueen/Sterling
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	you ain't got my number / you can't pin me down

“Look, Lightning, I’m not going to race you.”

Lightning hears the words but doesn’t process them, can’t think properly over the sound of her own pounding heart. “What? What do you mean not race me?”

“Hold on, hold on…”

This feeling—throat constricting, breaths staccato tight—it takes a minute before Lightning can identify it as terror _._ She’s _scared_. And she doesn’t know how to handle it, can’t even remember the last time she was scared. “I’m not going to Florida?”

“Lightning.” Sterling says her name the way Sally would say it: part consolation, part chastisement. “You have no idea how excited I was to get you here, because I knew—I _knew_ you’d be back. It was gonna be the comeback story of the year!”

_Going to be._ Lightning feels like crying.

“But your speed and performance just aren’t where they need to be. I’m sorry.”

The worst part is that she _does_ sound sorry. Sterling’s expression is pained, like this isn’t what she wants for either of them.

“We’re—we’re talking about speed on a simulator,” says Lightning desperately, gaze clinging to Sterling like static as she moves to sit at her desk. “Listen to how crazy that sounds!”

“Look, I’m trying to help you.” Yeah, right. Lightning is so _tired_ of people looking at her the way Sterling is looking at her now. Apologetic, pitying, like she’s naive for still believing in herself. “As your sponsor, yes, but also as your friend. Your racing days are coming to an end.”

The heat in Lightning’s chest spreads out to her limbs, her head, makes her feel feverish. _As your friend._ She wishes Mater were here.

Sterling is wrong. She’s wrong. Lightning just has to convince her—she can do this, she knows she can; she knows that racers have beaten worse odds before—

Over the sound of shuffling papers, Sterling adds, “Every time you lose, you damage yourself.”

Lightning stares at Sterling in disbelief. “Damage the _brand_ , you mean?” 

Sterling doesn’t even bother to look up from the contract that she’s flipping through. “Oh, Lightning, come on—”

“Is that what this is about? You don’t want me to race because you’re afraid you won’t be able to sell _mudflaps?”_

Sterling actually laughs. “Of course not—”

“I’m a racer,” Lightning snaps, “not a commodity. If you’re going to treat me like one, I’ll walk away from this right now.”

Sterling raises one carefully plucked brow. “Rust-eze has you signed for another six years, Lightning. God knows why; you barely had another year left in you even before the crash. But that’s besides the point. The point is, Rust-eze _owns_ you. And I own Rust-eze. So let’s do a little math, shall we?”

Lightning snorts, approaches the desk with crossed arms. “You think I don’t know my own contract? I can leave whenever I want. You’ve got it right there. Check if you don’t believe me, I can tell you the page number. Sally drew that up herself.”

Sterling doesn’t need to check. She read the fine print. It’s not like this is her first multimillion-dollar business deal.

But in the end, she doesn’t need anything legal and binding. She just needs this: The shortness of Lightning’s breath, the way her shoulders tremble, the fear that rests so close to the surface of her fury.

Quietly, Sterling asks, “You really think anyone else will sponsor you after the way you went out?”

Lightning flinches as if slapped, and Sterling smiles. 

“I’m the only one who had enough faith in you to even try getting you back on the track.”

“That’s not true,” Lightning mutters, but she won’t meet Sterling’s eye.

“Face it, Lightning, you’ve got nowhere else to go. You could leave Rust-eze, sure—but then you’ll always be the girl who crashed and burned. At least this way, you get to choose how you’re remembered.”

“I _want_ to be remembered for _winning.”_ Lightning suddenly turns and slams her hands down on the desk, makes Sterling step back in surprise. “For having the greatest comeback in racing history. Sure, my chances might be slim, but if you don’t let me race, they’re nonexistent. And I’m not going to let that happen. I’m not going to let you take this from me.”

Sterling is a little annoyed, a little impressed at the racer’s stubbornness. Maybe McQueen isn’t as insecure about her skills as she’d thought. 

And maybe she’s got a point. It’s been a decade, but this is still the same Lightning McQueen who nearly took the Piston Cup her rookie year.

Sterling wasn’t lying when she said she was a fan. She was actually at that race, and she remembers how close Lightning was to the finish line when she braked, can still recall the staggering, tremendous silence of twenty thousand people holding their breath, the whole world halted on its axis.

Chick Hicks might have taken home the trophy that night, but everyone knew who had really won _._ It was Lightning who headlined the papers, who raked in the sponsors, who had a spot on the cover of every racing magazine for the next two seasons—

It was Lightning who became a marketing dream, and she’d done it doing what she did best: Racing. Winning.

But the _risk…_

Lightning sits down on the edge of the desk, one hand curling against the wood right beside Sterling’s manicured fingers. “Come on,” she whispers. “What can I do to convince you?”

Sterling is jolted suddenly back to that night—not the tiebreaker, but the race before that, the Piston Cup final that started it all. McQueen was only the second woman to ever qualify, and Sterling cancelled four meetings just to make it to the track. On that last lap, as the 95 raced past the pit, Sterling's heart caught in her throat. She barely registered her own movements as she stood and walked straight to the window—so quick and so close that her champagne flute ran into the glass with a _clink._ And then the car began falling apart, of _course_ it did, and the whole room gasped, Cutlass and Cartrip losing their minds up in the booth—well, what were they expecting? The move was unprecedentedly fearless, unconscionably stupid, unbelievably endearing. Sterling had ached to be that bold, ready to risk it all for even the chance—

But those dreams always ended when the racers reached the finish line. Sterling just couldn’t ignore the numbers. She paid attention to the market and listened to her analysts and sold the people what she knew they wanted, and she made billions, and she was happy. 

Right?

Lightning’s hand is so _close_.

Sterling will admit she’s considered it. It’s Lightning McQueen, who hasn’t? But everyone knows that she and that attorney Carrera are joined at the hip in the off-season.

Besides, whatever little crush Sterling might have harboured for the racer in her younger days, that’s over. It’s been over. This—here, now—if she gives into this, she’ll have a variable on her hands that she never accounted for. 

Sterling glances up to see Lightning’s gaze burning with determination. She’s seen that look before. It’s the same expression McQueen wears when the 95 is inches from the finish line, intimate, familiar, infinitely sharper up close, and she isn’t ready for the totality of it. Wasn’t prepared for that blueness to swallow her whole.

Sterling clears her throat, feeling suddenly and inexplicably guilty as she snatches her hand from the desk and her gaze from Lightning’s, and turns to her laptop to open one of the two dozen emails she’s gotten in the last hour marked _urgent_. She skims the length of the message, scrolls back up, doesn’t register a word. “I’m flattered, Lightning, but batting those pretty little lashes of yours will get you nowhere. I’m not putting you in the race.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then Lightning begins to splutter indignantly. “Batting my—did you think I was making a _pass_ at you?”

Sterling stares up at her incredulously. “Don’t act like you weren’t half an inch from holding my hand!”

“I wasn’t trying to—you know what, _screw_ you.” Sterling lets out a short gasp as her chair is whipped around and she’s suddenly faced with the bright yellow bolt branded across Lightning’s shirt like a caution sign. The racer crouches down so that they’re at eye level and digs her finger into Sterling’s chest, her other hand still gripping tight to the back of the chair—close, too close; suddenly Sterling can barely breathe. “First you try to make me feel like shit,” she snaps, “Act like I don’t have what it takes to get back on the track—and I _know_ I do, I know I’d win it all if you just _let_ me—then you speak to me like that, fucking threaten me, and still have the _audacity_ to assume I’d want to sleep with you? You’ve got some goddamn nerve.”

Somewhere in the midst of that speech, the hand at Sterling’s chest comes to wrap around her tie, her grip so tight that if Sterling would scold her for crushing the silk if she could just find her breath. As it is, she’s dizzy with Lightning’s proximity, the fury in those bright blue eyes, the threat of what would happen if she just _pulled_ —

Lightning’s eyes widen. She straightens and releases Sterling and the chair in one swift motion, sending them both rolling a few inches backward and letting Sterling take her first real breath in over a minute.

“What—” Sterling manges shakily, before her heart is overwhelmed and she’s cut off by another heaving gasp.

“That’s rich,” says Lightning, crossing her arms, and the words are mocking but her tone isn’t. She sounds curious. Calculating. 

Hanging onto the end of her own tie, Sterling doubles over, squeezes her eyes shut, and breathes.

“ _What,”_ she repeats, when she’s finally regained enough air. Slowly she opens her eyes to see Lightning close again, too close, gripping the armrests of her chair, towering over her even at her small height and Sterling wants to slouch down, get away from those eyes, get away from this thing that’s too close to her young fantasies for comfort. 

“You really want this,” Lightning murmurs, tilting her chin up. “You want this, Ms. Sterling?”

Sterling’s mouth is dry, her throat collapsed. She can’t speak, can’t move, can’t _think._

But she does want. She wants so _much._ Sterling can feel Lightning’s breath on her lips, practically taste her; if she leaned forward just an inch she’d close the gap and be filled with the sweet warm scent of her—

Lightning kisses like she races. Quick, precise, her cocky self-assurance melting away into something irrepressibly sincere. Sterling’s right hand instantly falls away from her tie and flies to the back of Lightning’s neck, and Sterling can _feel_ Lightning’s smirk beneath her lips.

Then there’s a hand running over her through her pants and these are _Armani_ and sure Sterling can afford the dry cleaning but these are Armani and she’s nearly fourty years old; she can’t be grinding through her clothes into the palm of some blonde-haired blue-eyed jock on a fucking weekday afternoon.

Sterling groans, lips falling away from Lightning’s as she looks down. Lightning’s kisses are soft at her jaw but her hand moves roughly, cupping too tight, rubbing just a little too hard, and Sterling can’t help but lean into the touch, right leg moving up to lock around Lightning’s waist.

“Who’s the slut now?” Lightning murmurs at her ear. 

“I never—” Sterling lets out a strangled noise as Lightning changes tactics, unzipping her pants and shoving a hand unceremoniously under the waistband of her panties. “I never called you a slut.”

“You thought it,” says Lightning, and Sterling shudders as Lightning sinks two fingers into her (she’s so _wet,_ Lightning meets no resistance) and twists her wrist, lets her teeth graze against Sterling’s earlobe. “Everyone thinks it. Because I don’t just race well, I look goddamn good doing it. So they think I slept my way onto the track. They think, no one this pretty got this far on talent alone. Well, let me tell you something, _Sterling_.” 

She says her name like it’s poison in her mouth, and Sterling has to hold back another embarrassing sound as Lightning’s hand moves faster. It’s too hard, too painful, too good. “I’ve refused important people. People who could buy your company with their pocket money. Men who could fix the fucking Piston Cup. And they tried to have me kicked out of the series because I wouldn’t suck their dick, sure.” Lightning’s lips meet her again in a bruising kiss that lasts just long enough for Sterling to whine when she pulls away. “But they couldn’t. You know why?”

Sterling takes a shuddering breath, unable to respond for fear of her words slipping into another moan.

“Because I’m the _best,”_ Lightning snaps, and as she says it she pulls her hand away and stands. 

Sterling is left panting with her legs spread, unable to move even though she knows how shameful she must look, how much she’s proving Lightning’s point for her. She’s not even angry, though she wants to be. Not indignant though she’s had her pride stripped from her. She just feels desperate and needy and… _empty._ Maybe Lightning has her pinned in more ways than one. 

“You’re going to let me race,” says Lightning, wiping her wet hand straight on Sterling’s shining desk. “And I’ll prove it to you.” 

Lightheaded, Sterling rests her fingertips against her temple. She can’t meet Lightning’s eyes, stares at her dirty boots instead _._ “What if you can’t?” she demands weakly. “What if you lose?”

“Then you can go ahead and whore me out,” Lightning says, venomous. The boots turn, make for the door. “That’s all I’ll be good for. But it takes one to know one, doesn’t it, Ms. Sterling?” Sterling can hear her grin, bitterness and all. “Might want to zip up before the investors arrive.”

As the sliding door slams shut and the automatic blinds draw to a close, Lightning glances back just in time to see Sterling arch against her chair, burying one soft, manicured hand beneath blue silk.


End file.
